First Catch Your Hare
by Westron Wynde
Summary: Watson arrives at Baker Street to find Holmes in the grip of a most perplexing mystery. Has he finally met his match? Why is Mrs Hudson to blame? And how do you cook a chicken? Sounds like a typical Sunday at 221B! COMPLETE!
1. Part One

_**First Catch Your Hare**_

**Part One**

There is something about Sunday that is ineffably depressing.

When one has company, an effort is demanded to provide amusement for all parties concerned. A stroll in the park usually proves welcome relief, followed by music or reading or the quiet contentment to be had in the companionable silence that comes when novelty in the marital state mellows to comfortable tolerance.

When one is alone, as I was on that Sunday in March of 1889, it seems hardly worth the effort to shift from one's chair, let alone find some diversion outside the house. As it was, the sky was awash with grey clouds and the rain danced on slick pavements. Cabs rattled by, the horse's coats shining with water and their breaths steaming in the chill air. Those who had dared to venture out did so with umbrellas unfurled and scarves tightly bundled around their necks.

Tomorrow, London would present a newly-washed face to the world and the sun would shine, as ever it did when the working week began again. Today, however, I, along with the five million other inhabitants who call this crowded, jostling city home, were confined indoors, watching the raindrops chase down the windowpane and wondering how to amuse oneself.

By noon, I had had my fill of newspapers, journals and endless cups of tea. In short, I was at a loose end. I wandered from room to room, noting various tasks that were on my list of things to do when I had either the time or the inclination. The former I had in plenty; the latter rather less so. When one is suffering the effects of lassitude, there are few more depressing sights than a jug with handle that needs repairing or a pile of papers that needs filing.

Such trivial concerns had begun to take on greater importance when I had acquired my own house and the responsibilities of a married man. There was a time when I had thought nothing of stepping over scattered newspapers or resting my coffee cup on a heap of commonplace books. Indeed, I had prided myself on managing to bring a degree of harmony to the disorder of our chambers, and on several memorable occasions had even persuaded Holmes to make our living space a little more comfortable when the clutter had started to drift down the stairs.

I had imagined, smugly, that Holmes would vanish beneath a mountain of paper following my departure. To my chagrin, however, on the few occasions I had paid him a visit at Baker Street, the place had been tidy, remarkably so.

I say tidy in the loosest possible sense, for one man's order is another man's chaos. The newspapers were still wont to be filed on the floor and his indexes were jumbled together on their shelves, irrespective of date or alphabetical order. What was lacking was the jumble of chemical and criminal relics that I remembered fondly from those halcyon days when Holmes's greatest concern was the impending arrival of the next client and mine was to prevent the worst of his occasional indiscretions.

As much as I hated to admit it, he appeared to be keeping abreast of affairs, even deigning to keep his mess under control to a greater degree than I was managing. Given the state of my consulting room on that dismal Sunday, I did start to wonder whether Holmes's new-found orderliness was less happy coincidence and final proof that I had been the untidier of Mrs Hudson's tenants.

Certainly I seemed to be suffering from a surfeit of paperwork, much of which could be placed just as comfortably in the wastepaper basket as in my files, and there was a regrettable accumulation of dust on my medical journals. Allowing for the fact that the maid was not the brightest girl in London, having chosen to trace her name in the grime on my bookcase rather than clean it, I could not excuse my own inattention to the state of my surroundings.

What I should have done on that grey Sunday was to take the opportunity to bring order to my little corner of the world. What I did was to grab my hat, coat and umbrella and head out into the rain. In my defence, I was on my own. Housework holds no joy without the encouragement and scrutiny of an observant wife.

In such situations, it has been my custom to seek out my old friend and talk of times past. I did not break with the proven formula, and so very shortly I found myself outside my former rooms, knocking on the door and hoping to be let in before my trouser legs became thoroughly soaked through.

I expected Mrs Hudson to answer. Instead, I heard the squeal of runners grinding against a window frame above my head, and soon after Holmes's head appeared through the aperture.

"Who is it?" he said crisply, his tone suggesting that the timing of my visit was somewhat inconvenient. I waved up at him, feeling somewhat awkward at having intruded. His expression softened when he recognised me and a smile brightened his face.

"Ah, Watson!" he called down. "You could not have come at a better time, my boy. Let yourself in and come up."

I just managed to catch the keys that he tossed down. Upstairs the room was infernally hot, with water running down the inside of the windows and the air near stifling. Sweat began to prickle at the back of my neck and my wet clothes began to steam. I shed what I could and left my coat in an unobtrusive place near the fire.

The reason for these intemperate conditions, apart from the roaring fire in the grate, was a rack of bubbling test tubes, from which curls of steam were rising. Holmes sat staring at them intently, occasionally glancing at his watch, but otherwise engrossed in his work.

The crumpled collar of his night shirt peeped from beneath his loosely-tied purple dressing gown, suggesting that he was not long from his bed. Since he had troubled to shave and groom his hair, however, I gathered that he had been up some little time, possibly interrupted in his dressing by a client. Applying his own methods, as he was fond of telling me, I deduced that this must surely be the case, and the reason for his preoccupation with his chemical paraphernalia to the exclusion of all other matters, including my own arrival. He would either confirm or scupper my theory when he was good and ready.

Until then, I took a seat quietly at the table and tried to fathom the nature of his activities. At first sight, it seemed a most unusual experiment. Five test tubes, lined up in the rack above a generous flame, each contained a half measure of boiling water and two green spherical balls, which on closer inspection proved to be peas. I could make nothing of this, and was about to question him as to the meaning of his work when he let out a sudden exclamation of triumph.

"There!" he cried. "Five-and-twenty minutes exactly. Now we shall see, now we shall see! My labours have finally borne fruit."

It is always something of a delight to see Holmes so absorbed by a case. His keen eyes gleam, his lips contract into a hard, thin line and his features are allowed a brief moment to express that suppressed exultation which his severe manner will not normally permit under other circumstances. At such times, his energy becomes infectious, so that one is quite carried along in the moment, as I was. I did not know what outcome he expected, but I gathered that the denouement was cause for celebration.

Finally, amidst the rubbing of hands and self-congratulatory noises, he registered my presence. "Well, Watson," said he, taking up a cigarette and striking a match. "Is it Sunday already?"

I stared at him. "You mean you don't know?"

"The observation was simply based on your being here in the middle of the day, something you never do during surgery hours during the week. Mrs Watson is away, I take it?"

"Yes. Visiting friends. They've had a baby."

"I understand there's a lot of it about," Holmes remarked vaguely.

"Babies?" I queried.

"Visiting friends. An absurd ritual!" Smoke curled from his lips as he marshalled his thoughts on the subject. "What some call sociable, I call intrusive. People turn up uninvited, expecting to be fed and watered, and then proceed to bore all and sundry half to death with tales of woe about Aunt Gladys and her gout. It's an appalling habit. I wouldn't give them house room."

"There's little danger of that," I said. "You've said before that you don't have any friends."

"Except yourself."

"Aren't I visiting?"

Holmes smiled. "No, my dear fellow, you are bored. An hour ago, you were rattling around your empty house and decided to settle for the lesser of two evils by coming round to your former rooms to see if I can offer any amusement."

I have long been used to his ability to divine my actions on the slimmest of evidence, although as usual I failed to see how he had arrived at such a conclusion, veracious as it was.

"It was very superficial, Watson, I assure you," said he in answer to my inquiry. "You have an iodoform stain just above your knee, which appears to be recent. Therefore, I believe I may state with certainty that those are the same trousers you were wearing yesterday."

"The day before, actually."

He waved this aside. "Either way, it is a sartorial error that Mrs Watson would never have allowed to pass muster were she home and in a position to take you to task over it. Then, when I see dust upon on your edges of your shirt cuffs, I can only conclude that you had toyed with the idea of tidying your domain, but felt unequal to the task and came round here to find more edifying entertain on an otherwise dreary Sunday."

"As usual, you have described my movements exactly."

"It is no great feat, Watson. I have the advantage of knowing you. The difficulty in such cases comes with the unknown quantity. Had you been a client, the dust on your cuffs might have hinted at more sinister events. The secret of an empty house, the locked room at the top of the stairs, hidden papers, a box buried beneath the floorboards – yes, in its own way dust offers many possibilities."

I could not help smiling as I listened to this fanciful outpouring. "And you claim that mine is the romantic imagination."

"What you call romantic, my dear fellow, I call the extension of those principles of logic which I have so often recommended to you in the past. Even something so trifling may be indicative of the worst of crimes."

"By your own argument," said I, gesturing to the rack of test tubes, "I suppose I am to draw some dark and sinister meaning from your experiment with these peas."

Holmes regarded me with wolfish amusement from behind a cloud of blue smoke. "What would be your conclusion?" he asked, almost idly.

I gave the matter some thought before replying. "You have a case that centres around the chemical composition of these peas." I hesitated. "They _are_ peas, I take it? Not some exotic vegetable hitherto unknown to science?"

Holmes shook his head. "No, Watson, just peas, the common or garden _Pisum sativum_. Pray, continue."

"The fact you have been boiling them, and timing it, suggests that you intend to observe how long it takes for a certain reaction to take place. Judging from the state of the room – the amount of condensation on the windows in particular – I would say that these have been the subject of a good deal of experimentation. Now, you only expend such effort on a case of supreme importance." I regarded him with no small air of satisfaction in arriving at my conclusion. "Am I right in thinking that these are poisoned peas?"

"I do hope not," he drawled. "I was rather hoping to eat them."

"_Eat_ them?"

He tipped the water from the furthermost test tube into a glass beaker, catching the peas in his hand as he did so. One he held out to me, while the other he retained.

I regarded his offering suspiciously. The space of eight years had not entirely dimmed the memory of Stamford's words of caution, that Holmes was cold-blooded enough to administer some toxic substance to an unwary friend out of curiosity to observe the effects. Despite our long years of association, I still regarded unsolicited items of food with a degree of misgiving, lest I find myself later subject to some intense scientific scrutiny.

"Is it safe?" I asked.

"It may be a trifle over-cooked. As my trusty epicure, I was hoping you could tell me."

"Holmes, do you really mean to say that you have been boiling these peas for no other reason than for your own consumption?"

"Indeed. I am endeavouring to establish the optimum cooking time."

I stared at him in bafflement. "My dear fellow, do you intend to add 'Upon the Correct Cooking of Peas' to your extensive list of monographs?"

I laughed as I said it, expecting a similar reaction from my friend. However, Holmes's countenance remained stony.

"There is a principle at stake," he stated. "Namely that one should strive for perfection in all things. In this particular instance, I do not expect to get it, for I have ever observed that cookery is an imperfect art. One man's broth may be another man's potage, after all. However, we can but try."

"Why not simply ask Mrs Hudson? I'm sure she will tell you."

"Do not mention that woman's name," said he tersely. "This intolerable situation is entirely her doing. I apparently, whilst being the most loyal and tenacious of her tenants, do not represent a worthy cause!"

He was somewhat roused in temper, the usual result of a hiccup in one's domestic arrangements. "I take it that you have fallen out," I remarked.

"Really, you astound me." His voice had taken on that edge of sarcasm that usually preceded one of his more biting and bumptious comments on my observational shortcomings. "A child could have deduced that much from the fact that you were compelled to admit yourself earlier!"

"Yes, I did wonder about that. Where has Mrs Hudson gone?"

"The Seaman's Mission." He shot me a sideways glance. "I hold you to blame for this turn of events. The last time you were here, I distinctly remember you dispensing advice about the benefits to be gained from outside interests."

I seemed to remember at the time Mrs Hudson had been complaining of headaches and an unsettling sense of depression that was making her feel quite out of sorts. She had asked me whether liver salts might be the answer to her problem; on the contrary, I suggested that a spell away from the daily stresses of life might remedy her condition more than any expensive medication. I gathered from Holmes's remarks that she had taken my advice to heart, much to his chagrin.

"The very next day, she took herself over to St Mary's and joined the Mothers' Union," Holmes went on, clearly much aggrieved. "She has thrown herself whole-heartedly into their charitable work, which includes visiting the sick."

"Hence her presence at the Seaman's Mission."

"Indeed. When I reminded her of her responsibilities here, she said that I should consider those less fortunate than myself. I told her that charity begins at home, whereupon she said, and I quote: 'If you are so clever, Mr Holmes, why don't you cook for yourself?'" He paused. "Well, the upshot of it is that if I wish to eat today, I must shift for myself."

"Oh, Holmes," I said adopting my most sympathetic tones, all the while struggling to contain my amusement at his predicament. "The answer is simple enough: why not dine at Simpsons or Marcini's?"

"Out of the question," said he dismissively. "Mrs Hudson has thrown down the gauntlet. To countenance defeat is unthinkable. No, my dear fellow, nothing less than roast chicken with all the trimmings will suffice. My only limitation is that I am prevented, on pain of eviction, from using her beloved stove. I do, however, have a secret weapon at my disposal."

He brandished a thick volume with a much worn and battered burgundy red cover. I glanced at the faded gold lettering of the title on the spine.

"_Mrs Beeton's Household Management_?" I read aloud. "Surely you are not serious?"

"Why ever not? This has been the valued companion of many a young wife, so I am told. See here, in the preface: _'I have always thought that there is no more fruitful source of family discontent than badly-cooked dinners and untidy ways… a mistress must be thoroughly acquainted with the theory and practice of cookery, as well as all the other arts of making and keeping a comfortable home.'_ Just what we need in our situation, Waston, sound practical advice."

"Yes, I know. Mary has a copy."

"And you are fairly blooming on her efforts. Another three pounds, is it? Those buttons on your waistcoat are starting to look strained."

"Perhaps," I said, a trifle defensively. "But, Holmes, this is no easy undertaking which you propose. A full Sunday lunch? Isn't that a little ambitious?"

"Come, come, my dear fellow," he enthused. "Where is your sense of adventure?"

"I lost it in Afghanistan," I retorted.

He gave me a withering look and threw the book on the chair. "Yes, perhaps you are right," he conceded. "Having found myself bereft of interest, I thought it might be a welcome diversion. Well, well, I am sure I can find other distractions."

His eyes wandered to the mantelpiece and the small bottle that nestled amidst the jumble of letters, books and discarded pipes. Old habits die hard, and I was seized by concern at the direction of his thoughts. The situation seemed quite absurd, but since I had no viable alternatives, I saw that I would have to join him in this venture if only to keep his mind from other less edifying activities.

"Very well," I said with a sigh. "Where do we start?"

His eyes took on a gleam of delight. "Ah, Watson, my old and faithful campaigner, I knew you would not let me down," said he. "Now, to work! If we put our backs into it, we should be dining within the hour."

* * *

**Hmm, I think not, Mr Holmes. However, we'll see how the boys get on in Part Two.**

* * *

_Here's an unusual pairing, I hear you say. Why Mrs Beeton, and why cookery? Well, doing research for something else turned up this interesting observation by one of the characters in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's 'A Duet, with an Occasional Chorus': "Mrs Beeton must have been the finest housekeeper in the world." With such an endorsement, Holmes & Watson are in safe hands. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?_


	2. Part Two

_**First Catch Your Hare**_

**Part Two**

Whilst Holmes vanished downstairs to collect the raw ingredients for our meal, I was left to consult _Household Management_ as to how we should proceed. It was a hefty volume and, as generally happens when I am faced with a book of this size, my attention soon wandered from the many recipes listed in the index to sections on the 'Management of Children', 'How to keep well' and 'Legal Memoranda'. Overall, there was little that touched the house and home for which the author did not have a sage piece of advice.

Great care had been devoted to a chapter entitled 'The Mistress', and I soon found myself pouring over the recommended virtues of a married woman. Early rising was advocated, as was cheerfulness. The author stressed that a wife should not talk incessantly of the worries of servants and children, least it become a wearisome subject to the husband, although she was keen to point out that the petty anxieties of the household were not properly appreciated by men.

This was a sentiment with which I could find some sympathy, having had my fill of the daunting prospect of tidying my domain earlier. If that was the daily round which faced my poor Mary, then I made a resolution to exercise more patience and lend a more tolerant ear in the future.

Turning the page, I found a section instructing women on their friendships, and the advice seemed to be sound enough for either sex. I read with some amusement that a 'judicious choice of friends' was essential to happiness, but haste in forming friendships was not recommended least one be ignorant of later faults and vices. I wondered it this applied as equally to prospective fellow lodgers.

Recalling our first meeting, I could not help thinking that the introduction had been conducted at considerable speed and with the most basic of information imparted by either party. Had we followed Mrs Beeton's good counsel, I doubted whether either of us would be where we were today. I flattered myself that I would not have had second thoughts about our arrangement had Holmes been entirely honest from the first about the extent of some his less than condonable activities, as I hoped he would have overlooked mine. However, one can never tell. Some times an air of mystery is a desirable thing; one can know too much about one's fellow man after all.

The sound of the opening door brought me from my brown study and I glanced up to find Holmes returning with a covered dish in one hand, a large bowl in the other and several carrots protruding from his dressing gown pocket.

"You look thoughtful, Watson," he observed. "What are you reading?"

"Advice on how to acquire friends."

He gave a disparaging grunt as he unburdened himself of the items he was carrying. "Fascinating, I'm sure."

"According to Mrs Beeton," I said, reading from the page, "'one is apt to become narrow-minded by living too much in the home circle'. I think she means you, Holmes. You don't get out enough."

"I can't say I've noticed that being a problem," said he. "On the contrary, I have always believed the opposite to be true. Any biases I have formed over the years have invariably come from associating with other people. For example, all my reservations about doctors have been steadily confirmed over the years of our alliance."

"Glad to have been of some use," I replied in the same humour as his comments had been made.

"Now, friend Watson," said he, rubbing his hands together with impatient relish, "what do you think of this?"

With a flourish worthy of any celebrated prestidigitator, he swept away the cloth from the dish to reveal a plucked chicken. I must admit that I was somewhat unimpressed. It was a sorry-looking specimen with one leg appreciably larger than the other and its breast somewhat flattened. The head appeared to have been hacked off with a knife ill-suited to the purpose and the feet were still attached, sticking out forlornly at right-angles from the rest of the body. Judging from the odd feather and the occasional tear in the flesh, I gathered that its preparation for the oven had been traumatic.

"Whatever happened to it?" I asked with some amusement. "Did it meet with an accident? Was it run over by a cab?"

Holmes gave me a sideways glance. "No, this is the fruit of my labours."

"Well, I'm sure you did the best you could."

His face flushed with indignation. "I'll have you know that de-feathering this bird took up most of my morning. Do you have any idea how infernally difficult it is?"

"You're meant to pluck them immediately after killing, before the flesh stiffens."

"I thought you knew nothing about it?"

"One may learn," said I, brandishing the book. "Failing that, you should have plunged it into hot water. And your choice of fowl is most unsatisfactory. It says here—"

"I can imagine," he cut in. "I have observed that the advice is very much along the lines of the 'first catch your hare' school of cookery. Well, I am bound to inform you that the capture of this bird, of which you and Mrs Beeton are most critical, was entirely out of my hands. This is what the butcher's boy delivered. You may take up your complaints with him." He gave a disparaging sniff. "So, since I am in the presence of an expert on the subject, what do we do with it now?"

"Singe it."

"Watson, we wish to cook it, not give it a light tan."

"No, Holmes, it says here you have to singe it to remove any feathers."

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Let them burn off. What's next?"

"You have to draw it."

"I must say that I am not entirely appreciative of your sense of humour today," said he wearily. "This is a lesson in cookery, not art."

"To draw poultry means to remove the innards," I explained tolerantly.

"Ah."

For a long time we stared at the bird, neither of us making a move to begin the necessary procedure.

"I believe," said Holmes at last, "that this is more in your line, Doctor."

I was not about to be badgered into such an unpleasant task lightly. "I'm not in the habit of disembowelling my patients on a regular basis. Besides, I have the book. I can't read and draw poultry at the same time."

"Well, I can't do it. My hands are cold."

"That won't worry the chicken too much."

A disgruntled expression settled on his face. "It seems a most undignified thing for a gentleman to have to do," said he. "Can you I not persuade you—"

"Birds aren't really my field, old fellow," I said quickly. "If you prefer not to do it, we could always eat out or wait for Mrs Hudson to return."

"And suffer defeat at the hands of a woman? Never!" he declared, rolling up his sleeve. "What do I have to do?"

Five minutes later, the chicken was drawn, and Holmes had hurried into his room with his soiled hand held out before him, as far from his body as was possible to manage. He returned with a towel, sniffing suspiciously at his fingers and his lip curled in disgust.

I smiled at his ill-humour. "A shame you did not consider a career in medicine," I said. "You have a delicate touch."

"If you wish to remain under this roof, Watson," he muttered, "then you would be well advised to keep remarks like that to yourself. That was the single most disagreeable task I have ever had the misfortune to undertake in the course of my adult life."

"You did remove everything?"

He grimaced. "Yes. And I trust that is the last internal examination I shall have to perform in the course of this culinary exercise!"

"Stuff it," I said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We still have to stuff it," I repeated. "The chicken. Mrs Hudson always uses sausage meat."

He glanced at the four sausages that lay to one side of the bird. "Yes, I was wondering why she had left them there. They have to be inserted, I take it?"

"I believe you have to remove the skins first."

My advice fell on deaf ears. Before I could stop him, he had gathered up the sausages and pushed them into the battered bird. The result of this was a most unappetising sight, with what appeared to be four plump fingers hanging out between the chicken's legs.

"You can't leave it looking like that," I protested. "Why, it's… it's not decent."

He sighed. "My dear fellow, if you wish to take command of food preparation, then you will not find me complaining. Given infinite time and patience, I would endeavour to beautify our meal, but the hour is pressing. May we continue?"

I was not entirely happy with the situation, but lacking the inclination to meddle, I kept my silence and instead consulted the book. "Now you have to truss it ready for roasting." I paused. "By the way, if we are not permitted to use the stove, how _do_ you intend to cook it?"

"Before the fire, naturally. What we need is a spit."

I have had my fair share of food cooked over camp fires. I have even toasted bread and crumpets many times before the grate. But to suggest that a similar result might be achieved with a whole chicken seemed to me to be stretching the bounds of credibility.

Holmes, however, was convinced that his plan was without fault. Whilst I was busy mounting my objections, he had collected one of his old fencing foils from beneath his bed and was lending me only half his attention while he tested its keenness of the palm of his hand.

"Moreover," I was insisting when he finally honoured me with a glance, "food poisoning is highly unpleasant and dangerous."

"Which is why we shall make sure it is cooked thoroughly. Now, be a good fellow and hold up the bird."

"Why?"

"I'm going to run it through." He gave a few practise swishes of the foil and to my consternation adopted the _en garde_ stance. "What's wrong?" he asked when he saw my hesitation.

"Wouldn't you prefer cheese on toast?" I suggested. "We could easily manage that."

"Cheese on toast?" he repeated incredulously. "After all our efforts, you are willing to settle for so paltry a meal?"

"Rather that than being impaled on the end of your foil."

Holmes smiled. "Have no fear, I am quite adept. However, if you have concerns as to my accuracy, hold it out to one side."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather I put it on my head in the fashion of William Tell?"

"How very amusing," said he. "I think I can manage at waist-height."

"This is most irregular," I said, somewhat huffily. "I'm sure this is _not_ how they do it at Simpson's."

"Probably because they lack the imagination. Now, keep quite still."

It flashed through my mind that in the tradition of all great feats of marksmanship the assistant was always provided with a blindfold. Not that I questioned his prowess with the blade, but I had my doubts as to whether I could maintain a hold on the slippery bird with a foil coming straight at me. But Holmes had no such hesitation. He eyed his target, lined up his weapon and deftly ran it through, sweeping it from my hands in an elegant salute.

"Hah!" said he, holding the foil upright to allow the carcass to slither down the metal. "It is always gratifying to find that one has not lost one's touch."

"You did clean the blade, I suppose?" I asked.

Admittedly it was rather late to be asking. Given the other unhygienic practices to which I had been privy, a dirty blade was going to be the least of our worries. In the event, Holmes chose to ignore my pedantic concerns and set the foil with the impaled chicken before the fire, balanced on the fire irons. He took a step back to consider his work, then with an exclamation of impatience disappeared yet again into his bedroom. When he returned, it was with a chamber pot which he set underneath the roasting chicken.

"My dear Holmes," I protested. "Surely this is going too far!"

"Whatever is the matter?" said he. "It has never been used, except as a plant container, and we must catch the drips."

As usual, his logic was impeccable. For my part, however, I was bound to say that I was fast losing my appetite.

* * *

_**Cheer up, Doctor. Things can't get any worse… or can they? Let's see what happens in Part Three!**_


	3. Part Three

_**First Catch Your Hare**_

**Part Three**

Holmes has often paid me the compliment that as a companion, my greatest virtue is in my silence. However, on so important a point as our good digestive health, I thought I owed it to all concerned to point out certain failings in what he perceived to be an otherwise excellent plan.

"I do not believe I am a fussy man," I began. "But cooking a chicken before a coal fire and catching the dripping in a chamber pot, whether used or not, can only lead to trouble!"

He had paused to light himself a cigarette. Taking a moment to savour the smoke, he favoured the impaled fowl with a most thoughtful expression.

"I fear you are too cautious, my dear fellow," said he after a suitable length of time had passed. "Ancient man fared well enough with such methods, and he did not have the superlative Mrs Beeton to turn to for advice. I do not pretend that the end result of our labours will be a work of art, but it will be passable."

"Lethal more likely," I muttered.

"We can at least take precautions. This bird, for instance. For how long should it be roasted?"

I turned the pages and came across a chapter entitled 'The Cook's Time Table'. Passing over cooking times for beef, mutton and sucking pig, I found the appropriate entry for chicken, only to encounter another obstacle.

"Would you say that is a medium or a large fowl?" I asked.

"I'm sure I could not say," he replied, "not having another chicken on hand with which to compare our specimen. For all we know, this bird roasting on our hearth may have been the prince of its coop, the largest and most magnificent of its kind."

I stared doubtfully at the forlorn carcass with its few dangling feathers, splayed legs and unsightly protrusion from its rear end.

"On the other hand," said Holmes, "I believe we may be safe enough in saying that our bird is one of the commoner variety. Let's be generous and call it medium."

"In that case, it says here that it needs fifty minutes to cook."

"Capital." Holmes stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on the mantle. "Which gives us plenty of time to consider our vegetable course. Come, and let me have your opinion of these peas."

Given what I had already witnessed, his earlier experiment took on a whole new light. If I thought that his unconventional approach to cookery extended only to roast chicken, then I was mistaken.

I watched with a sense of growing unease as he extracted the remaining peas from the test tubes and, lining them up in front of him, proceeded to spear them, one by one, on the needle of a hypodermic syringe. He then had the gall to offer it to me. I declined, on the grounds of ignorance as to the possibly noxious liquids contained within before, and relied instead upon my fingers.

"Each have been boiled for a specific length of time," Holmes explained. "The first being five minutes and the last twenty-five. Our task is to determine which best suits our palate."

"Didn't _Household Management_ give you the timings?"

"It said between ten and twenty-five minutes, 'according to taste'. That tells me nothing, for my taste is quite different from that of the next man. Since in this instance you _are_ the next man, I feel you are more qualified than most to pronounce judgement."

As pointless as the exercise seemed, I ate my peas in the order presented. "The fourth suits me well enough," I said after giving the matter due consideration.

"Twenty minutes. Hmm, to my mind the third retained that plumpness that one expects from a pea. Well, we shall split the difference. Say, seventeen minutes? Therefore, we have half an hour to shell them. How are you with peas, old fellow?"

He produced a large bowl brimming with pea pods from the chair and placed it before me.

"Are we expected to eat all of these?" I questioned.

Holmes shook his head. "As many as you think is necessary for an adequate meal. I would say perhaps fifty peas each?"

If he thought I was going to count each individual pea, then he was in for a nasty surprise. "I have a fair idea about suitable amounts," I said. "How do you propose to cook them?"

To my consternation, he made a long arm and took down a large glass beaker from the shelf. The dead spider within was tossed onto the floor with aplomb and the vessel then set on the tripod over the flame.

"If you don't mind," I said, "I'll give a wash first."

"As you please," Holmes said unconcernedly. "Well, time is pressing, so while you deal with the peas, I shall wrestle with the potatoes."

From his pocket, he produced five misshapen specimens, which were already showing signs of growth with fat white roots. According to the book, we had already fallen at the first hurdle. Potatoes of equal size were specified; but as Holmes argued, one must make do with the raw materials at one's disposal. Since these were all he could find, these would have to do.

"Are we to roast them or boil them?" I inquired.

"What the deuce does it matter?"

"It matters," I said patiently, "because the cooking method is vastly different."

"Very well then, we shall have roast potatoes."

"In that case, your next step is to peel them thinly."

"Cooking is such a bore," said he, selecting a scalpel from the desk drawer. "Is there anything that does not require such endless preparation?"

"Apples," I suggested, as I set about the bowl of pea pods.

"Apart from apples."

"Oranges?"

"Granted, but a meal of apples and oranges is hardly what one expects for a Sunday lunch."

He cut into his potato and removed a layer of skin, taking a large portion of the flesh with it. Far be it for me to criticise his efforts, but I felt a little advice was in order least our roast potatoes came to present a rather wasted impression on our plates.

"Mrs Beeton said to peel them _thinly_," I gently reminded him.

"Yes, yes, that was just a practice stroke."

Another length of peel came away with most of the pale yellow flesh of the potato adhering. Holmes muttered something discouraging under his breath and set about the rest of the peel with the zeal of a man determined not to be thwarted. Under the circumstances, I thought it best not to touch again upon his lack of skill. Instead, I turned the conversation to the other matter that had been nagging at the back of my mind since my arrival.

"May I ask a frank question?" I ventured.

"As long as you don't mind a frank answer."

I smiled. To expect anything less from Holmes was an absurd thought. "Why is this place so tidy?"

He looked up briefly from his work to glance about the room. "Tidy? In what sense?"

"In the sense that you are able to find things. Scalpels, glass vessels – there was a time we used to have to turn the place upside down to find even your cuff links."

He chuckled. "I see what you are driving at, my dear fellow. You believed that when you forsook these rooms and saddled me with the responsibility for paying the full rent for this picturesque pile—"

"That is unfair," I interjected. "There was nothing stopping you allowing Mrs Hudson to find another tenant to share the rent."

"Nothing indeed, save my natural aversion to the tedious company of others and the knowledge that my former fellow lodger is wont to seek refuge here from time to time." He shot me a sideways glance, a half-smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "Regardless of that, the point I was making before you interrupted me was that you believed I would vanish into a slough consisting of the papers, journals and all the other flotsam and jetsam that I have gathered along life's path, is that not correct?"

"It did cross my mind."

"The fact is, Watson, that when you left, then I truly could not find anything. For a medical man, your idea of what constitutes an adequate level of organisation is most irregular. There is no method to it. I spent days searching for the most basic of items, only to find them in the most illogical of places. I was forced, therefore, to impose order upon your chaos. Now things are where I would expect to find them and not disposed hither and thither according to your capricious whims."

"Well, you have done a most admirable job of it. I was quite taken aback."

"I did mark your reaction with some interest," said he. "I fear that this, allied with my new-found culinary skills, has led you to the conclusion that I am becoming _domesticated_."

Since he had discerned my all too evident feelings on the subject, there was little use in denying it. "I confess," said I, "that thought had crossed my mind. For someone who eats sparingly at the best of times, that you should put so much effort into Sunday lunch quite astounds me."

"Have no fear, my dear fellow," said he. "I am as I always was. Had this situation not arisen, my intention was to remain in my bed and sleep Sunday away. As it is, the experience has been instructive and the prospect of your company is always a good reason to get up. We have shared the problem, Watson, and the sum total of our effort is this!"

He held up what can only be described as a sliver of potato. Duly stripped of its skin, the result was something as long as my little finger and about as fat.

"I am not altogether pleased with it," said he, "although the task is somewhat harder than it looks. Although I would argue that 'to peel something thinly' is a relative term."

"I believe anyone would call that thin, Holmes. It looks more like a parsnip than a potato."

He gave me a withering look. "I should be loath to pass comment on the work of others when after a good deal of toil I had managed to extract only a handful of peas from their pods."

I conceded that he had a point. Splitting the pods was easy enough, except that the peas were either squashed or too eager for escape. So far, I had managed to lose more to the floor than I had contained within the beaker, and I dared not move my feet least the escapees were flattened into the rug.

"I can see now why Mrs Hudson takes umbrage when I pass judgement on her cooking," Holmes went on. "It is a thankless task to be sure."

He continued in this vein, although my attention was being distracted by a rather disagreeable odour, which was increasing in intensity with every passing minute.

"What's that smell?" I asked when I could bear it no longer.

Holmes sniffed. "Something burning, I believe."

I followed his gaze to the hearth and the roasting chicken, which now boasted a halo of small flames where the fire had caught the remaining feathers. One by one they blackened, crumpled and drifted down into the chamber pot below.

"Watson," said he, a touch wearily. "Be a good fellow and open the window. I dare say it will not do us any harm, but I have no wish to spend the rest of the week in the company of the lingering aroma of burnt feathers."

* * *

_**Surely that's the end of their woes… or is it? Let's see what happens in Part Four!**_


	4. Part Four

_**First Catch Your Hare**_

**Part Four**

I was glad for the fresh air, less so for the rain, driven by a sudden squall, that lashed my face as I opened the window. The weather had grown truculent and the grey mass of clouds above Baker Street rumbled ominously. The wind caught the blind and whipped it from my hand, only to bring it down hard on the back of my neck with such force that my skin was left smarting.

I freed myself from the folds of the billowing curtains, pulled the window down halfway and left the blasts of cold air to remove the traces of scorching fowl feathers from the room. By the time I returned to the table, Holmes had started on his second potato and was working a good deal faster than before.

He took in my wind tousled hair and wet collar. "Is it still raining?" he asked innocently.

To dignify this remark with a sensible answer was, I felt, beneath me, for I sensed he was making a poor attempt at humour at my expense. I was about to reply in kind with a criticism of his peeling efforts when I saw something that came me cause for concern.

"Holmes, you're bleeding."

He glanced down at the red stains that had appeared on the potato's flesh. "It's nothing," said he, dismissively. "I sliced into my palm with the scalpel, that's all. It's a mere trifle."

"Mere trifle or not, let me see."

I had to wrest the potato from his grasp to examine the wound. Reluctantly he offered his hand for inspection. A flap of skin had been raised between his thumb and forefinger where he had been careless with the blade. It was not especially deep, but I suspected that it was painful, as such cuts generally are, and it was bleeding profusely.

"Will I live?" he asked lightly.

"Yes."

"That is good news. '_He died with a potato in his hand_' as an epitaph would, I fear, cause some amusement at the cemetery."

"That is the least of your worries. Was the scalpel clean?"

"It's a little late to be asking me that now, after I've been peeling vegetables with it. But yes," said he, pre-empting my protestations, "it was clean. I gave it a rinse only last week."

"I hope for your sake that you did," said I. "My old headmaster always maintained that a cut twixt finger and thumb like this led to lockjaw."

"It is pleasant for me to observe," said Holmes, watching while I bathed his sliced palm, "that the medical profession has not entirely shaken off those roots of mysticism and superstition from which the art developed. For all our erudition we have never been entirely able to eradicate that primeval memory that would us trust in old wives' tales and the cures of wise women. What I am to expect next – eye of newt and tongue of frog, perhaps? A night spent in the temple of Aesculapius, amongst the sacred serpents?"

"Don't be facetious," I chided him. "I merely mention it because it was and still is a very popular belief. A number of my patients have said as much to me in the past."

"And, in your experience, has the charge been proved?"

I considered as I applied a large strip of plaster. "In some cases, yes."

"And in others, no. I prove my point." He tentatively flexed his injured hand. "Watson, I fear my peeling days are over. Do you feel equal to the task?"

"I haven't finished the peas."

He eyed the few I had managed to corral into the beaker. "That is quite sufficient. I find peas indigestible in any case. Pass me the book. I shall offer direction whilst you work."

It was with the greatest reluctance that I relinquished _Household Management_ to him. I had no objection to peeling vegetables, but I would have liked to retain some small advantage in this trying situation, for long experience has taught me that Holmes's idea of guidance is not mine. He tends to criticise first, and then suggest how he should have done if only someone had bothered to ask him. If I dare to protest, he answers as he always does: that if I knew better, then why was I making such a confounded mess of it?

As it happened, Holmes had turned to the page I had marked for 'Chicken, Roasted'. A frown took shape on his brow and I gathered I was about to be lectured as to the deficiencies of my advice.

"What's this about pricking the breast?" said he. "You never mentioned that."

"If you read on," I said, gesturing with the tip of my knife to the appropriate paragraph, "it says that pricking is not essential—"

"'But some cooks prefer it'," Holmes read aloud. "You know, Watson, I'm seriously considering writing a letter of complaint to the author. There are some very imprecise instructions contained within this book. For example, how would you define 'some cooks'? Ten, twenty, one hundred? How do I know if I am numbered amongst this vague total? Do I like my chicken breast pricked or not? And this – 'time for cooking, about an hour'. Is it an hour or isn't it? Is fifty-five minutes too short or six-five minutes too long?"

"Holmes," I said wearily, "does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. In cookery I would say that pedantry was vital. Five minutes either way could mean the difference between a good meal and food poisoning. No, no, I shall never be a student of cookery and for this very reason. My mind abhors such imprecision. It is anathema to the logician, and therefore I will have none of it."

Having said his piece, the fire that had stoked his indignation went out of him, only to be replaced a moment later by exasperation. "Good heavens, bacon!" he exclaimed, much to my surprise.

"What of it?"

"It says here we should have skewered the chicken with slices of the stuff. Well, I dare say we can do without it. What next? I am almost inclined not to read on. 'Serve both gravy and bread sauce separately'. Naturally – one should never mix one's gravy and bread sauce. It's an appalling habit."

"Do we have any?" I asked.

"Mrs Hudson might have some downstairs," he said vaguely.

"Actually, Holmes, I believe you have to make it."

He raised one elegant brow in a gesture of incredulity. "Don't be ridiculous, Watson. Do you imagine we have to do _everything_ for ourselves?"

"Consult the book."

"Really, I should imagine that…" He trailed off into silence. "My apologies, my dear fellow, it appears you were correct. Now, let's see. Milk, cream, breadcrumbs…" He hesitated. "I'm assuming one obtains breadcrumbs from bread?"

"I believe so."

"Good, because I noticed a fair few still remaining on the tablecloth this morning. Now, butter, a very small peeled onion..." His brow creased with dissatisfaction. "There again, I must take issue with the author. Surely a very small onion would be a spring onion or, failing that, a shallot."

"If you say so, Holmes."

"As for peeling it, my recent misadventure has persuaded me that the task is not to be attempted by any save the foolhardy. No, this would take too long to prepare in any case. We shall have to manage without bread sauce."

"Done," I said, with a sigh of satisfaction as I finished my last potato.

He glanced over at my progress. "I hate to criticise, old fellow, but why are there only three potatoes there? What happened to the ones I prepared?"

"I threw them away."

"Why?"

"They were covered in blood."

"That is no reason for wasting perfectly good food."

He gave me a look that suggested he was waiting for me to retrieve the potatoes from out of the wastepaper basket. I, for my part, was determined I would not.

"Holmes," said I, "there are many things I would willingly do if you asked me, but consuming food contaminated with your blood is a step too far!"

This statement appeared to amuse him. "Has it ever occurred to you that you chose the wrong profession, Watson?" said he. "For a medical man, you are unusually squeamish. First you refuse to eviscerate a chicken and now you are making a fuss about a little splash of blood on the potatoes."

"Call it what you will," I retorted, "but I have my standards."

"Then you shall find yourself going hungry, which, for a man with an appetite like yours, is bound to be a disagreeable experience. As it is, our meal will consist of little more than burnt chicken, a handful of peas and three potatoes to share between us."

"And carrots," I reminded him.

He shook his head. "Carrots have never been a favourite of mine."

"Since you brought them up, we may as well cook them."

"Do not waste your time with them, Watson. They are beneath contempt."

This remark brought a smile to my face. "Whatever have they done to deserve such censure?"

"I'm afraid they are what Mrs Beeton would call 'old carrots', due to their slightly rubbery nature, and as such, need a boiling time in excess of one hour. No, my dear fellow, I fear carrots are out of the question."

"Very well, but let us at least get the potatoes on to cook."

"As I recall," said he, adopting an authoritative air, "when one wishes to cook a potato outdoors, it is wrapped in clay and baked in the fire itself."

"Are you sure? Isn't that what you do with hedgehogs to remove the spines?"

"Is it?" Holmes shrugged. "I will take your word for it. I was never one for squatting on damp grass around the camp fire. Let us see what Mrs Beeton has to say on the subject." He quickly turned the pages, ran his eye down the entry and his frown deepened. "We shall have to do without the potatoes," he declared. "You have made an error, Watson."

He turned the book round for me to read. Under the heading for roast potatoes, the recommended cooking time was stated as being from one to two hours, according to size.

"We could boil them," I suggested.

My companion grinned suddenly. "I have an idea."

I watched with some consternation as he conveyed the peeled potatoes to the fireplace and one by one dropped them into the chamber pot with its lining of yellow fat, which hissed and spat like the foul brew of a witch's cauldron.

"Holmes," I protested, "I really don't think—"

"In that case, you should get into the habit of doing so at least once a day," said he briskly. "Wanton neglect of one's mental faculties can only to lead to moral decay and a lack of imagination. See here, for example. _Mater artium necessitas, _as the Roman poets phrase it. Truly do dire situations inspire ingenious solutions. In that spirit, I have devised my own method of cooking potatoes – _pommes de terre au Holmes_. Hah! It will be the talk of Society circles. Give it time, Watson, and before you know it, the head chef at Simpson's will be begging me for the recipe."

I had my doubts, but said nothing. When Holmes was in such a mood of supreme confidence, it was always advisable to let him have his head.

"Indeed," he enthused, "I may even write a monograph on the subject. It seems to me that there is a demand for a well-written manual with clear instructions for the amateur to follow. Well, what do you say to it, Watson? Shall we devote ourselves to testing each and every of these recipes and recording our efforts for the enlightenment of the culinarily confused?"

"You may, if you wish," said I. "Personally, I have better things to do with my time."

"That is why you will never be rich, Watson. You think in terms of the present, not of the future."

Before he could warm to his subject, I decided it was time to bring his attention back to our current predicament. "Speaking of the here and now, what are we to do about gravy? We must have that, if nothing else."

With a sigh, he began to flick through the book, finally finding the appropriate page. "'A good gravy is indispensable with meat, poultry and game'," he read aloud. "There, now, Watson, a sentiment with which you can find common ground. Gravy, gravy – ah! For Poultry and Game. Ingredients: cold water, a small onion – my, the author does like her onions, does she not? – lean beef—"

"Beef?" I queried. "What does beef have to do with gravy for chicken?"

"Very little, one would think. The recipe is quite clear, however. Not that it matters in any case; according to this, the preparation time is three to four hours. We shall have to do without – unless you wish to have gravy for dessert."

I was willing to give up bread sauce. I could live without boiled carrots. But the thought of chicken without gravy was unconscionable.

"I seem to recall that one may make gravy from giblets," I said. "In fact, I believe that is how Mrs Hudson does it."

"Giblets," Holmes said with distaste. "Do you mean the _disjecta membra_ I was compelled to remove earlier?"

"Yes, the edible parts like the heart, liver, gizzard—"

He grimaced and held up his hand. "No more, my dear fellow, for I have a sudden attack of biliousness. Unless Mrs Hudson can provide an alternative, I shall be abstaining from gravy in the future. But," said he, rising from his chair, "unless I am much mistaken, that is the lady now."

From downstairs I heard the thud as the front door was closed. Holmes grinned conspiratorially and rubbed his hands together.

"My nemesis returns, and not a moment before time," said he. "Now, is everything in hand? Chicken, potatoes… _peas_! Curse them, I had forgotten. Quick, Watson, put them on to boil. All must appear normal and well under control when she arrives. To think she doubted my culinary skills. Mrs Hudson is in for quite a surprise, is she not?"

* * *

_**Quite a surprise… that probably qualifies as understatement of the year! Let's see what she has to say about it in Part Five!**_


	5. Part Five

_**First Catch Your Hare**_

**Part Five**

Holmes's enthusiasm for our efforts was, I feared, greatly misplaced. I did not pretend that the surprise awaiting Mrs Hudson was going to be anything but an unpleasant one. I steeled myself for her entrance and knew I was about to bear witness to one of those rare occasions when Holmes was proved hopelessly in the wrong.

What I did not realise, however, was that the situation was about to take a turn for the worst, proof that no matter how bad things are, there is always scope for deterioration.

While I put the peas to boiling, the sounds of activity from outside the room grew ever louder. Downstairs came a cry, something like a soul in anguish, followed by a slamming door and the sound of determined footsteps upon the stair. I gathered all was not well.

That Holmes harboured no such misgivings was evident from his slightly smug smile as he lounged beside the fireplace, cigarette in one hand, the other thrust insolently into his dressing gown pocket. In some ways, I could admire this sort of untrammelled confidence, set as it was in the face of almost certain defeat; in others, I thought him deluded if he thought Mrs Hudson would have anything save some fairly unkind words to say about his recent culinary efforts.

In a contest between the two, I would have wagered on Mrs Hudson emerging the victor. The two had tangled before, and I knew from experience that she had no time for Holmes's loquacity, sarcasm or sardonic humour. In her favour was her tendency not to mince her words and to speak her mind without hesitation, a trait that Holmes always found disarming in the opposite sex. Furthermore, she held the trump card – namely the leasehold of his rooms.

This usually necessitated a certain restraint on Holmes's part, although today he appeared to have thrown caution to the wind. If he managed to retain his tenancy in the light of what now seemed to me utter foolhardiness, then I would be astounded.

Needless to say, I braced myself for the coming storm – which was just as well, for I was soon to find that my metaphor was to take shape quite literally, though not as I had imagined.

The sound of her strident voice calling my companion's name in a tone best described as terse heralded her imminent arrival. A moment later, her hand was on the doorknob. Unfortunately, her entrance was to coincide with a sudden rising of the gale outside so that what happened next took us all by surprise.

No sooner had the door opened than a ferocious through-draft swept through the room. Newspapers were tossed into the air and the curtains billowed as though bedevilled by some unseen primeval force, taken to running amok in the homes of respectable Londoners.

On the bookcase, a pile of journals were dislodged from their lofty dwelling place by the wild convulsions of the flapping blinds. Down they tumbled onto a worn and precariously placed copy of Joseph Orfila's _'Traité des Poisons'_. This in turn, dislodged by the sudden addition of several weighty journals, toppled perilously towards the fire. Holmes reached for it, missed and ended up with his foot in the fat-filled chamber pot.

The book continued on its way, saving itself by clipping the fire irons and sending them tumbling, while it was deflected out of harm's way onto the hearth rug. The fire irons went their own separate ways, one into the fire, taking the foil and impaled chicken with it, the other towards the chamber pot, which smashed, causing a yellow lake of grease and oily potatoes to flood out over the rug.

To make matters worse, in a misguided attempt to help, I had jumped to my feet, knocking the table as I did so. Holmes's chemical apparatus jangled like an unruly percussion section of an orchestra. The peas – my foes of the past hour – decided that this was their ideal opportunity to escape. They pitched the beaker on to its side and proceeded to cascade out in a mockery of a waterfall, off the table, down my trouser leg and away across the floor. In my haste, I then compounded my error by dancing away from the touch of tepid water against my leg and managing to grind nearly every bouncing pea into the carpet.

By the fireplace, Holmes was attempting a rescue of the chicken, which lay quietly smouldering amongst the coals and eager flames. Before it was entirely cremated, he wrapped a handkerchief around his hand and managed to extract the foil from the fire. The manoeuvre was faultless; his mistake was then in raising it so that the scorched fowl slithered down to the hilt. The slight jolt caused the sausages to slip one by one from their precarious and indelicate position, each to split as they hit the rug and thence to disgorge their flaccid contents far and wide.

And all this conducted under the baleful eye of Mrs Hudson.

To her credit, she managed to maintain an admirable composure under the circumstances. Had I been witness to such wanton vandalism, I doubt whether I could have kept my temper. It is a rare woman indeed who can keep her calm with sausage meat splattered up her dress and chicken fat spread across her hearth rug.

More worryingly was the time it took her to make some comment about the state of the place. With my own dear Mary, I have found that a lengthy silence means one of two things: either that she is on the verge of tears, or that she is exploiting the moment with the intent of inducing the maximum of guilt on my part and thereafter my humble submission to whatever terms she might impose as punishment.

Since I had never seen Mrs Hudson moved to tears, I gathered that she was mustering her ills for the latter purpose. When she did speak, it was only to confirm my suspicions.

"Mr Holmes," said she, icily. "What _do_ you think you're doing?"

Her tone, whilst containing a note of reproof, was strangely reasonable. It was that familiar to countless schoolboys, brought before a formidable headmaster to account for some misdeed. Guilt was already decided; what was required was an explanation, the outcome of which would either result in a stern telling off, or, if one was particularly unlucky, ten of the best across one's palm with a ruler. Nothing reduces a fellow to contriteness more effectively than that tone, a lesson that wives the length and breadth of the country have been quick to learn.

Holmes, despite his claims to the contrary, proved himself to be no different from the rest of us. I have always believed he harboured a grudging respect for the lady, above and beyond the normal deference I had seen him display towards other women. I suspected it had something to do with his acknowledge of his shortcomings as a tenant and Mrs Hudson's considerable tolerance.

I might also have said that now, faced with her simmering disapproval, he betrayed some little apprehension in tense line of his shoulders and his vain and cavalier attempt to dismiss the problem as though it was nothing more than a mere inconvenience to all concerned.

In his place, I should have made profuse apologies and promises to make amends; he, however, decided to try the tack that in youth would be called insolence, by attempting to deflect the blame from himself and onto his accuser.

"I am cooking, Mrs Hudson," he declared in answer to her question, as though he thought her unable to deduce that much for herself. "An unhappy situation into which I was forced by your abrupt departure this morning."

"Is that what it is?" said she crisply. "What _have_ you done to that bird?"

He regarded the burned and tattered carcass with some regret. "I'll admit that it is a trifle overcooked, though nothing that can't be scraped off."

Mrs Hudson shook her head in the manner of an old mother hen. "You've fair ruined it, Mr Holmes. That chicken was one of Mr Thomas's finest! He picked it out especially for me."

"Then you should tell him to exercise greater judgement in the future," said Holmes. "The specimen does not live up to Mrs Beeton's standards."

"It did before you started mauling it."

"That charge I absolutely deny," he replied. "The state of this bird is entirely in accord with its appearance as found."

"Which you were told to leave alone," she retorted. "I asked you, sir, not to meddle with my kitchen—"

"On the contrary," said he, unwisely interrupting her flow, "you said nothing about the kitchen, only the stove, which you will find is quite untouched."

"And what of all those feathers on the kitchen floor?"

Holmes stuck out his jaw. "One cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs. Any cook will tell you that. As to our efforts, we were managing perfectly well until that unfortunate accident a moment ago."

In one stroke, Holmes had ensured that he would not bear the blame alone. Mrs Hudson cast a critical eye in my direction. "I thought you might have known better, Doctor, you being a married man and all."

"Yes, I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson," I apologised. "Matters got somewhat out of hand."

"I should say it did," she said. "Look at that rug. I shall have to scrub that all night to get that grease out. And I dare say it's gone through to the floor beneath. Oh, and peas all over the carpet too, as if I didn't have enough to do. I was only gone a couple of hours, Mr Holmes. I think you might have had a little consideration for others. I said I would prepare the meal when I returned. There are others less fortunate that yourself, you know."

"That I do not doubt for a second," he countered. "I dispute, however, that my hunger is any less than theirs."

He tipped the foil, and the chicken slid down the length of the blade to collapse into an untidy mess on the meat platter.

"What do you expect me to do with this?" she asked, eyeing it with distaste.

"If you are lacking in imagination, consult Mrs Beeton. I'm sure she has numerous suggestions."

"Oh, no, sir, I'll be too busy for cooking today, Mr Holmes," said she, picking up the dish. "What with having to washing the rug and sweeping up all those chicken feathers. I might manage a light supper tonight, but I shouldn't count on it."

So saying, she bore her dish with its dubious offering away and left us both smarting from the encounter. To my mind, Holmes had been lightly treated considering his actions, and it struck me that either Mrs Hudson had the most forgiving nature of any woman of my acquaintance, or that she harboured some fondness for my friend that kept her from sending him packing, as any other landlady might have done.

"Do not be deceived, Watson," Holmes remarked, when I mentioned his lucky escape. "That woman delights in tormenting me. I have not heard the last of this, you can be sure of that. For the present, she will make herself a nuisance all afternoon, muttering to herself and scrubbing and defiling my air with the stench of lavender soap. It will be intolerable!"

He gave me a desultory glance.

"My dear fellow, you made an offer a little while ago, which, I fear, I dismissed out of hand. Could I remind you of it?"

"You mean cheese on toast?"

"Not one of my favourites, but I dare say better than nothing, which is what I shall have if I stay here. I shall be ready in a matter of minutes."

He vanished into his room before I had a chance to raise a protest. A little later, he returned, groomed and immaculate, the sharp creases in his trousers and starched collar appearing in stark contrast to my own stained trousers and generally dishevelled appearance.

"I take it that you expect to enjoy this meal at my home?" I inquired.

"Naturally," said he. "We can hardly eat here with Mrs Hudson underfoot. Is there a problem?"

"Only that Mary wanted me to do some small jobs around the house. I was going to say that I'd been called away with a patient, but if she returns to find you there…"

"She will be dissatisfied that you have disdained your duties as head of the household in preference for the consumption of cheese on toast in the company of an intimate acquaintance," Holmes finished for me. "These tasks, Watson, do they involve the preparation of food? Because if so, I wish to make it clear that I intend to become a vegetarian before ever submitting myself to the indignity of cookery again."

"No, Holmes, it's nothing like that."

He regarded me suspiciously. "Then what?"

"Well, how are you with handles, old man?"

"Door handles?" he questioned.

"No, ceramic ones. The handle came away from Mary's best Worcester jug, and since it used to belong to her mother, she is rather attached to it."

"Unlike the handle," Holmes said with a sigh. "Well, I dare say we shall do our best not to disappoint your good lady, after which we may be allowed a little sustenance by way of your fire and toasting fork. As for a solution to this particular problem…"

"Mrs Beeton recommends—"

Holmes held up his hand. "I believe my own intelligence is quite equal to the task of affixing a handle to a jug with the judicious application of a little glue. So, come, Watson, into your coat and let us make haste. Oh, and do leave Mrs Beeton's tome behind, my dear fellow. Given what happened the last time we followed her advice, I should be loath to repeat the experiment!"

**Addendum**

Sherlock Holmes did publish a monograph on the art of cookery – entitled '_The Bakers of Baker Street_' – which included such memorable recipes as 'Sherlock's Sizzling Sausages', 'Dr Watson's Winsome Winkles', 'Mycroft's Mashed Marrows' and 'Mrs Hudson's Dainty Dumplings'. The publication was not a great success, and Mr Holmes blamed its lack of sales on the interference of a criminal mastermind, although the exorbitant price of five guineas might also have had something to do with it.

**The End**

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Historical Note

Mrs Isabella Beeton's _Book of Household Management_ (first published 1861) was later published by Ward, Lock and Co, the same publishers who accepted Conan Doyle's _A Study in Scarlet_ for a flat fee of £25, for publication in _Beeton's Christmas Annual_ of 1887, which had been founded 27 years earlier by Samuel Orchart Beeton, husband of… yes, you've guessed it, Mrs Beeton. All roads lead back to Sherlock in the end!

* * *

_**Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor authorised by any official body.**_


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